L'Épée de Godric Gryffondor
by coeurgryffondor
Summary: Godric Gryffindor has seen wars, kings, death... At Hogwarts he hopes to create a brighter future, and heal old wounds. / Historically accurate, Gryffindor-centric. Dedicated to Poufsouffle.
1. ān

Author's note: I researched what I could (me=historical accuracy stickler), but I only know so much about the 10th century. I'll also say I am a Gryffindor, but the bias presented here is intentional. The founders had to have had strong ideas about the Houses. Here is Gryffindor's.

Pronunciation guide: Wicing (Viking). Aoibheann (EE-van). The rest of the names are English actually, so pronounce them however you'd like.

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><p><strong>L'Épée de Godric Gryffondor<br>**(The Sword of Godric Gryffindor)

1.

Godric Gryffindor leaned back in his seat, taking in the sight before him. Had he ever thought his life would come to this? The Great Hall clattered with the sounds of dinner as four long tables filled with nearly thirty students in total ate and drank and talked. And at one end of the hall, another long table stretched across to seat the four Heads of House.

No, Godric never would have pictured something like this. Something so serene, so peaceful. This wasn't anything like the life of a warrior he had lived for so long. Shifting, he felt the taut skin of an old wound from Maldon that had never healed properly. Well, at least he'd gotten the chance to pay back in kind the wicing who had given it to him, before that stupid Byrhtnoþ had decided no more magic. Bloody bastards, the both of them.

"Are you well, Sir Gryffindor?" the lovely lassy to his left asked. Smiling, Helga Hufflepuff radiated happiness as she placed her golden cup down. He returned the kindness with a kiss to the hand.

"Of course I am, when fine ladies such as you are my company."

The lovely witch blushed before turning her attention to one of the boys in her House who had approached her. What was his name? Willard, that was it. A good boy, Godric thought, still holding Hufflepuff's hand, just not enough courage in him. But loyal till the end, that was for sure. Those students did love Hufflepuff.

And what was not to love? The madam was kind to all of Hogwarts's students, treating them all equally, which, while not something Godric was capable of, he admired her for. Helga had captured his thoughts when he'd first met her, but she was too angelic for his liking. She was, simply put, a good person. No bad thoughts. No cruel comebacks. Just happiness and love for all.

Sometimes it was too much for him to handle.

Sighing, Godric took the hand of the lady on his right, the lovely Rowena Ravenclaw, and graced it too with a kiss. Now this was a woman not to mess with, a rare beauty to be tamed by no one. Godric liked the challenge.

His kiss warranted only for Ravenclaw to turn her sneer momentarily upon the fiery knight before resuming her conversation with the warlock on her other side. Even as Godric held her hand, she leaned farther from him, towards Salazar Slytherin. Whatever he was saying seemed to have her entranced, which only made Godric's lust for her grow, though he knew better than to act on it.

Ravenclaw had given, in his opinion, the most so far for the new school. She had picked the location, drawn up the plans, found the workers who would build the castle. The protections on the magnificent fortress, the soaring mountains and dazzling lake, she had not left out one little detail.

Save, Godric thought with a smirk, to pay attention to her daughter. At the table of the House of Ravenclaw, the young Helena eyed her mother carefully. Oh yes, just as wild and untamable as her mother.

There was a hissing noise, which caused Godric to roll his eyes. That bloody snake with his bloody Parseltongue, trying to woo Ravenclaw. Slytherin should have known that if Godric Gryffindor had wanted the woman's attentions, he would have won them already. It would have been no competition at all.

Between two beautiful and strong witches, a hand each for his own, Godric looked out over the students. The Hufflepuffs all laughed at something Willard seemed to have said. The Ravenclaws pointed to books while gently sipping at their wine, only Helena diverting her attention from her studies to steal looks at her mother and her mother's suitor.

On the far wall, the Slytherins seemed to be discussing the politics of the day. Godric smirked; he could teach them something about that. Half the reason Hugh Capet sat on the French thrown was Godric's doing, though if he kept up his battle with the pope in Rome, who knew how long his reign would last? The youngest student at Hogwarts, Edith, sat quietly amongst her fellow Slytherins, stealing glances to check for her father's approval. As if the Slytherin girl was destined for anything less than great things. On her looks and talent alone, Godric could see a queen in the making.

Godric would have picked her for his own House, had she been anyone else's daughter. She was vain, yes. Proud, of course. Ambitious, the very definition of it. But Edith was also outspoken and daring, something both Godric and Slytherin had always appreciated. No, if she was to have gone somewhere besides the House of Gryffindor, her father's House was what Godric wanted. It was the only other House he could trust, and it would have made her mother proud, had she lived to see this day.

Lazily returning to the object of his original attention, Godric looked straight ahead. The sea of red and gold before him never failed to fill him with excitement. Oh yes, these were witches and wizards he could trust without hesitation. They may have been the smallest House in numbers, but Godric knew each and every student. They were his children, his five brave and strong Gryffindors.

They were the only family he had. He would die for them.


	2. twēgen

Author's note: Someone asked why I don't use classic old-timey English phrasing with "thou" and "thy" and those sort of things. Well, to answers that question… hadn't really thought of that. For the inner dialogue I don't mind using modern words, but I guess since they'd be speaking Old English, and it's punishment enough with Old English names, I've taken poetic license on this one. I'm already looking up things like "spoons in 10th century England", so I can only push myself so far. :)

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><p><strong><strong>L'Épée de Godric Gryffondor<br>****(The Sword of Godric Gryffindor)

2.

"And so the king demanded, 'Who made you count?', to which the count replied, 'Who made you king?' Ha!"

The three students gathered around Godric laughed along with their teacher. After having been regaled with tales of Godric Gryffindor's quests in West Francia in Hugh Capet during their break, the students finished their food and stood for more practice. Godric sat to watch them.

Æðelwine was Godric's only student born to two Muggle parents, but he had proved himself at the Battle of Maldon, winning him his unquestioned place in Gryffindor's House. And yet for all Æðelwine's battlefield experience, he held nothing to Sigeberht, the greatest swordsman Gryffindor had come across. He swung his sword with an ease that came from learning under a Muggle blacksmith for a father, with a lingering assurance in his success, knowing his mother's magic coursed through the blade.

It was a balanced fight. Æðelwine had a confidence that came from battlefield experience, and an unpredictable way about him that allowed him to keep up with Sigeberht and throw the challenger off. Sigeberht, on the other hand, had true skill but had never been tested in a way that would show him what real hand-to-hand combat was like, having always relied on his luck.

And the beautiful maiden Felicia watching, having promised a kiss as the victor's prize, did not seem to hurt in keeping the match vicious. The Pureblooded noble from Scotland was one of the few witches Godric had come across who had been raised in a protected house, free from fear of Muggle attacks, free to practice magic whenever she liked. Her silvery white hair glittered in the sun as she watched the match, keeping both boys honest and fighting for her affection.

As the swords clanked and light reflected from their blades, Godric turned his attention to his remaining students. Young Mildþryð was the smallest child Godric had ever seen, which was no surprise after her magical parents had been killed in a raid years earlier. She had spent time in the care of Hufflepuff, but Godric could see it in her eyes: there was a need to protect, a need to seek justice, a need to fight for what was right. Mildþryð would grow up strong at Hogwarts, free of fear, the way Felicia had grown. Then she would be able to match the older girl's magic, and the real fun would begin. Mildþryð was what Godric valued.

But as Mildþryð left her private lesson to watch the sword fight, her had-been tutor turned her attention not to the match, but to the glistening lake. Aoibheann was the student Godric prized most of the five. Hers was a quiet battle, one she had never quite voiced. Golden hair fell down her back; it was Aoibheann who had started the House on wearing scarlet and gold in most things they did. When they had told Godric what they had decided, she said it was to show unity. To remind them to stick together, and to always remember what their House stood for. What Godric stood for.

Oh, Aoibheann was something else.

Her head turned, slowly, as if unsure of what it would find. She caught his gaze; Godric smirked. He was no longer some foolish lover, the young man who had set out over water for Francia. And in his journey, he had of course impressed upon the ladies, oh, how to put it… his skill with his sword.

That warranted its own chuckle, as Godric thought of it. The blonde quirked an eyebrow, sizing him up, as if she could find some answer in his demeanor.

"And what, Lord Gryffindor, is so amusing to you?" Her voice was sweet, but there was a challenging undertone to it that seemed to dare him for an answer.

Yes, Godric had learned long ago how to impress ladies. He moved to sit beside Aoibheann, all thoughts of the sword fight having left his mind. (The victor had been Æðelwine, for Sigeberht had been distracted when Felicia bent down to pick a flower.) His favorite such lady he had met had been Adelaide the White, an older woman, but important in Francia. Or at least, her five husbands all had been important. Oh, he had liked her very much.

"I had simply been reminded, my lady, of my youth." As he spoke he pushed aside some of Aoibheann's hair. Rather than shying away from him, the young maiden leaned into his touch.

"Is that so?"

He was glad he had picked her for his House. "Is it so hard to believe I was once young?"

She looked at him, meeting his stare. Her eyes were a blue-green like he had never seen, as unique as the witch whom they belonged to. "I suppose, my lord, it is only so hard to believe you did not find a maiden to wed."

There was a light in her eyes as she spoke, a twinkle to show she did not mean harm by the comment, but it struck something in Godric that had not been touched in years. Images of a young red head, dying… he could not help her. He could not save her.

Godric hadn't realized it, but he had shifted his gaze to the lake. A soft hand touched his worn cheek. He moved into it.

"What was her name?"

Her name? Her name was a name worthy of an angel. Her name was a name that should be etched in stone for all to come and see. Her name was a name he had sworn he would never speak of again.

"Seraphina."


	3. þrīe

Author's note: Let me set the tone on this one for you:

"The consequence was that from this time forward the penalty of witchcraft was death, and there is evidence that if the constituted authority, either ecclesiastical or civil, seemed to slacken in their efforts the populace took the law into their own hands with far more fearful results."

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><p><strong><strong>L'Épée de Godric Gryffondor<br>****(The Sword of Godric Gryffindor)

3.

Godric was twenty-one years of age, proving himself in West Francia, when he went for that fateful ride through the countryside. He had expected to see wild game, incredible views, beautiful land. He had not been expecting to cross paths with a woman who would change his life.

Without thinking he stopped at the sight as she ran into the clearing. Her hair had fallen from her head, the curls and waves frizzing, wildly circling her head. Her clothes were torn in places, small patches of blood staining the fabric. She seemed to not be wearing shoes. The wind whipped at her body.

He caught her eyes before he heard the men. There was something in those blue eyes, something frightened but alive. They made Godric stop in his tracks.

The woman stopped too, and met Godric's gaze. Her eyes softened, her fear subsided, until there was another sound from the approaching men. She turned toward the sound, then back to the seated warrior, desperation in her eyes. Instinctively he reached down for her and pulled the maiden onto his horse. As the men came closer, the horse reared and galloped off in the other direction. Behind them there was the sound of shouting, but it lessened with each great stride of the valiant steed.

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><p>Her dress was slipping from her shoulders as she bent to pick a flower. Godric laid on the sunny bank of a river, watching her as she moved. It would be night soon, and there was no time to return to a town. Godric didn't even know which direction to head; he had gone off course in losing the vicious mob.<p>

Red hair fell softly over her pale shoulder, revealing the milky skin beneath. She paused in her standing, but did not look his way. She knew he was watching her.

"What is your name?" he called out to her in French.

The maiden stood and stared at him. Walking forward, she held the flower out for Godric. But she did not say anything.

"What is your name?" he repeated. His French was good. Not on par with his English, but still.

She shook her head and sat next to him, her eyes wide as she watched him.

Perhaps… "What is your name?" he tried in Occitan.

At that her head perked up. "Seraphina," she said.

"Seraphina," he repeated, leaning back into the soft earth. Godric closed his eyes; he felt her move beside him. Before he could open his eyes, she had laid down beside him, her head on his chest. He put an arm around her.

"Why were those men chasing you Seraphina?" he asked after some time had passed. She stiffened. "You can tell me, I do not care. I have already rescued you."

The red-haired maiden sat up, Godric's arm falling to her waist. The sun was getting low; they'd have to start a fire soon.

"My father has always kept me at the castle with him. He says I remind him of my mother. His wife has never liked that." Godric sighed inwardly; the things these French men got away with. "My mother died when I was small. I have only ever known that place. I have only ever known my father's protection.

"He left," she said, turning to Godric. "To fight a battle. I promised I would not tell his wife of our magic, but she had her way in the end. My father was abandoned on the field to die; I was to be her next victim."

There was a finality to the words that did not match the cool evening and chirping of nearby insects. A firefly flew by Seraphina's face; she lit up at the sight of something so simple yet natural.

"You escaped." It was less a question, but still something Godric needed to hear said aloud.

She turned to him and smiled. "You saved me."

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><p>Seraphina was like no other woman Godric had ever known. Once he had woken gladly early in the morning to go hunting; now he laid in bed each morning, waiting for his witch to wake before taking her one last time before leaving. They moved their way back up to northern Francia, toward Paris. By the time they had reached the city she was with child.<p>

Godric had always intended to marry her. When they returned to his home they would wed. But as they made their way to the coast, preparing to sail back…

It was awful; he had never been so frightened in all his life. Men came from all directions, pulled Seraphina from the horse, from him. Godric had only ever used his magic in secret, never telling anyone of it unless he had to; he had his skills as a warrior to keep him safe in the Muggle world. But Seraphina had no such skills. They had prepared a stake already for whatever witch they could find. Godric fought off each man as the previous one fell dead. No, not like this. It wasn't suppose to end like this. They were to grow old together, raise children, live by a glittering lake.

Her screams seemed so far away at first; he hadn't realized his back was to the stake in the night's battle. But the fire reached up towards the heaven, engulfing the darkness with its chaos; Seraphina did not know the spell to quell the fire's hunger. Godric fought away each man, but it was not fast enough.

Within minutes they were all dead, and Godric was cutting her from the stake. Her skin was raw, her dress burnt. Seraphina fell into his arms, her body shaking.

"No," he kept repeating. "No."

"Godric," she whispered, clutching at his chest.

He pulled her close, fighting back tears that would help no one now. Her necklace dug into his skin; he had bought it for her in Paris, the rubies reminded him of her hair. Now those days seemed so far away, so frivolous. This was his love, dying in his arms. This was his child, dead before she was born.

A whisper in the night, the last words to grace those angelic lips he had learned to cherish so much. "Godric, I love you."

It just wasn't possible to hold her close enough, to have enough time to tell her how much he loved her. He repeated the words, over and over, until he felt her body go limp; even then he kept saying them, afraid to let go of her, afraid to let her soul move on.

This wasn't fair. She should have known the spell. Why hadn't her father taught her the spell?

Why did they have to live life like this?

Why did it have to end this way?


	4. fēower

Author's note: Ériu is Ireland. Can you say longest chapter? I hope you all enjoyed this. Feedback on what to write next is always appreciated; I aim to please.

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><p><strong><strong>L'Épée de Godric Gryffondor<br>****(The Sword of Godric Gryffindor)

4.

It was the feeling of somebody crawling into his bed that woke Godric.

"Who is-" he began, still not yet fully escaped from the world of dreams.

"Shh." A finger pressed to his lips. A body laid down beside his. A smell that was familiar.

He pulled the former student to him. "Aoibheann." He kissed her hair.

"I could not sleep," she confessed quietly. The fire in the grate snapped as it broke a log in two. "I have missed you greatly."

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><p>Years had passed since the original Hogwarts students had graduated and moved on. But they needed more teachers and more escorts to the school, with more students coming to them each week. Godric's first five children did him proud.<p>

Æðelwine scouted the country, looking for magical children to send to Hogwarts. Godric had told him not to worry about their age; if they waited to take in the children, it might be too late. Æðelwine had saved dozens in his first year alone.

Sigeberht trained King Æthelred's soldiers, the English king seeking a way out of paying the tribute he owed the Danes from his loss at Maldon. The children of these soldiers, those who had magic, were also sent to Hogwarts, each with a dagger made for them by Sigeberht himself.

Felicia had married a strong enchanter from the south, a man by the name of Peverell. Together they fortified their castle, making it a safe haven for children on the way to Hogwarts. Her sons, she would write to Godric, were strong. They would be legends; she could feel it in her heart.

Mildþryð, always following in her adoptive father's footsteps, carried on the Gryffindor's fight in Francia along side Gisela, a daughter of Hugh Capet, whom rumor had it had some magic in her yet. Last he had heard, the two supposed sorcerers had made their way to Gisela's sister Hedwig in Hainaut.

But Aoibheann, the most beloved of Godric's students, had refused to leave Hogwarts. She never said why, though Godric never did ask; there were some things best left unspoken. She grew attached to him as she trained under masters, Godric encouraging her studies until she had become a master herself in powerful magic.

And Godric grew attached to her as well. She was a rock of stability as the grounds of Hogwarts continued to settle. His dear friend Slytherin had left years earlier, taking beloved Edith with him. Ravenclaw, though she would never admit her love for the man, had recently fallen ill. Sweet Hufflepuff, try as she might, was becoming aged as well. The time was coming for Hogwarts to move to other hands.

In his legacy, Godric Gryffindor had begun to leave behind what he could. The Sorting Hat, still as sleek and fashionable as the day he had pulled it off his own head, had been perfected years earlier in sorting students. Sometimes, Godric thought, it even did a better job than the founders had; it could see potential in the students who passed under it. It was unbiased.

The tower that had been built for his students was furnished in red and gold furniture, tapestries hanging from the walls, life brimming in its rooms. How many days had passed since he first sat with his five students? Since they created the first password, since they hoisted, together, the shield of Gryffindor high over the fireplace's mantlepiece? Godric had lost count.

Now Aoibheann was head of Gryffindor House. She was Godric's closest companion, the final keeper of so many of his secrets. Once, in a fit of passion, he remembers throwing her on the bed and telling her he would never marry her. When she said she did not need a ring, only his love and his word, he knew he had found someone to stay by his side until his death.

At first memories of nights spent with Seraphina had filled his mind, consuming him. He used to cry out her name as he came, but Aoibheann never said anything of it as he laid with her. She was the only person he had ever told of his dead love, the only person who could give him a second chance. After months of love making, the flashbacks stopped, and it was only Aoibheann, blonde hair thrown back wildly, strong thighs pulling him to her, pale skin aching to be touched, he would see. Aoibheann Gryffindor, his young wife.

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><p>The next morning Godric laid in bed, watching her. So it had not all been a dream, her creeping into his room. He had returned late from his meeting with the goblins; when he was away, Aoibheann slept in the tower. She said the bed was too big without him in it.<p>

Aoibheann stood naked before her armoire, tying her hair up with her ribbon. Having done so in a pleasing manner, she selected her clothes, bringing them to the bed, where she began to dress.

"Did you get your sword? Godric? Godric!" His eyes snapped up from her pale breasts to find her eyebrows raised. "Shall I parade about in the nude today as well? Did you get your sword?"

Godric smiled. "With breasts like that, my dear, any man would have a sword." He chuckled to himself, ignoring his wife's glare. "But yes, I did. I watched them fix the rubies into the hilt. Sigeberht made a good choice in who to have forge the weapon, Ragnuk has good hands."

"And are you pleased with it?"

"Very much, as I am pleased with you."

Her red gown hung from her body, long gold sleeves moving as she made to sit on the bed. She kissed her husband lightly. "Good."

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><p>The rubies threw red light about the small room as Godric held it, Aoibheann finishing the preparations for their spell. Godric had never discarded a sword, and now he was glad; he was able to bring all of them to the goblin, who forged from the pieces one perfect blade. The rubies, the last of the sword, came from the necklace Godric had bought once, long ago, in Paris for Seraphina. The name GRYFFINDOR was etched beautifully in the blade.<p>

"Ready," Aoibheann whispered. "You are sure, my beloved?"

"Positive," he responded, standing from the window.

Godric placed the sword upon the table. Aoibheann would work the magic; he was too old for such things. But he watched, aiding her where he could, reinforcing her magic with his. They had no children; the Gryffindor bloodline would end with him. How many generations of Gryffindors had lived in Cornwall, passing their knowledge and magical blood to their heirs? As a young man, Godric was ashamed to think it would all end with him. He had failed in his duties.

But as Aoibheann finished the spell, Godric knew this was how it was meant to be. Hogwarts had taken that shame from him, had reinforced that it did not matter if you were Pureblooded or of Muggle birth, or even Half-blooded. Students had come from high in the mountains, and from down in low lands. Aoibheann had come from Ériu, fleeing wicing raids. All were welcomed to call Hogwarts their home.

In his own lifetime, Godric had come to see the House of Gryffindor flourish. Witches and wizards, dressed in the same shades of red and gold, bearing lions on their capes, were his children. Godric knew each one by name; he knew there would be so many to come after that he would never know. But not one student had disappointed him, each a true Gryffindor in their own way. Sure, some had stumbled, but in the end, their loyalty to their House had not wavered.

With that, the spell was finished. Aoibheann sat, exhausted, and watched Godric lift the sword high into the stream of light coming from the window. This was the last thing he would leave behind to his House. A Gryffindor did not stand for material possession or worldly gain, for success in this life; a Gryffindor stood for chivalry, bravery, courage in the face of danger. No matter who tried, no matter how hard, the sword could belong to no one person.

For the Sword of Godric Gryffindor belonged to all Gryffindors.

FIN


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